LESLIE EPSTEIN
43
"I see," said Lotte. "It's Subpoena Day. Citation Day. A national cel–
ebration. "
"Do you know what Mister Murphy said? He said that I am the
fastest boy in P.E. He timed me with a stopwatch."
No one responded. Norman looked out his window, squinting
against the sun's attempts to make its way through the last of that morn–
ing's clouds, and Lotte looked out of hers.
There were more reporters in front of our house. Their cars were
parked on both sides of San Remo Drive. They besieged us when Arthur
rolled down his window to unlatch the gate. There were another twenty
or thirty people stretched along the length of the metal fence. They were
shouting and waving their homemade signs.
"I didn't imagine this in Riviera," Lotte said.
"Don't kid yourself," Norman answered. "They never wanted us
here in the first place."
We drove by the front of the house to the open space between the two
wings. Sampson, in greeting, ran in Sambo-like circles around the pecan
tree. Mary stood at the back doorway, her hands pressed against her
white uniform. We could hear the phone ringing in every part of the
house. Then, as if seized by the same breeze that was tossing the bud–
ding pecans, the family Jacobi blew off each in his own direction. Lotte
said, "I don't care about the weather. Let it rain! Let it shine! I am going
for my swim." Off she went to the bedroom to change into her suit.
"Take the phone off the hook, please, Arthur," Norman said. "I'm
taking a ten minute nap. Don't let me sleep any longer. I've got a moun–
tain of scripts." He climbed the stairs to the library, to lie down on the
leather couch. Bartie took Sampson through the arch to the yard in
back, where they could play catch with figs from the hedge. Mary
thought she'd better prepare for lunch; and Arthur took off his cap and
his jacket, then rolled up his sleeves and started to polish the silverware
with a stained yellow cloth.
I snuck out the side gate and crossed Romany Drive to Madeline's
house. I hadn't seen her through the window of the bus that morning,
which meant that she was probably still in bed with the flu. The Italian
maid grudgingly allowed me upstairs. I once heard Norman say she had
had to leave Rome because her family was connected to Mussolini.
"You should see the grin on Patrizia," I said to Madeline, by way of
greeting. She was in bed, with my copy of
The Grapes of Wrath
propped on her knees. "Our downfall is her triumph. I thought she was
going to laugh in my face."
"Did you ever hear of knocking? It's the gentlemanly thing to do."
